the way it rolls off your tongue, blue,

mysterious. It’s rather old fashioned tho

but when you run out of words for the

blues, doesn’t indigo give it a little

class? Then, I think of Millay with her

indigo buntings, curled on the same

velvet couches I have tho they’ve been

re-covered, not indigo but a chocolate

brown. One visitor stopping at Steepletop

in Edna’s last years mentioned how

shabby the sofas were. I think how

Vincent gave up her velvets, lovers, drugs

for the stillness. Except for the buntings.

But I digress. Indigo. I had to listen to

The Indigo girls, found I liked their name

better. I’d like to say I found the metaphor

to cinch this poem, to pull any reader

into Indigo ecstasy when I found some

E Mail about the film Indigo Children

but when I put the name on Google,

what I read lacked all iridescent blue,

that startling hypnotic glistening. Less

there than the marine’s startling icy eyes,

indigo jolting as sequins from deep under

ground as my real life pales